


the supplication of a dead man's hand

by Lise



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: (by which I mean This Is Why Loki Can't Have Nice Things), Angst, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Gen, I mean almost certainly, Loki Angst, Loki Has Issues, Loki Needs a Hug, Mild Gore, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Thor: The Dark World, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Time Travel, but also Not Character Death, but would not accept one anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-24 17:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10746141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: Loki receives an unexpected visitor. From the future.





	the supplication of a dead man's hand

**Author's Note:**

> I don't remember who prompted me for this - or even exactly what the prompt was. But lord did I have fun writing it. 
> 
> Originally posted on my Tumblr back in 2016, almost exactly a year ago. Only getting around to posting it now. The title, for the curious, is from T.S. Eliot's _The Hollow Men_ , which is both a favorite poem and I think very appropriate for this particular fic.
> 
> Enjoy.

> Those who have crossed  
>  With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
>  Remember us—if at all—not as lost  
>  Violent souls, but only  
>  As the hollow men  
>  The stuffed men.

> \--T.S. Eliot,  _The Hollow Men_

Loki could not bear to sleep in Odin’s bed.

Oh, true, he might have stolen the Allfather’s throne, sent his heir away, taken on his guise and hidden the old man away in a secret room under layers of spells to ensure he did not wake unexpectedly, but somehow sleeping in his bed was too much. Fortunately, with the excuse of grief, he was free to choose an adjoining suite and order it cleared for his use, and no one seemed to find it peculiar.

 _Unsurprising that he would not want to sleep there,_ he heard a maid whisper once, when she thought he was out of earshot. _With the Allmother who shared it for centuries so lately stolen from him._

So very _convenient_ for Loki’s purposes, that so much could be written off as grief for Frigga Allmother, beloved wife.

The taste of that was like bitter ashes in his mouth, that he could - was - using her death to his benefit. But he still did it, thing that he was. _Anything to survive,_ he thought, because apparently whatever he willed some part of him kept clawing its way back. Loki told himself it wasn’t just for his sake, that he would find a way to preserve Asgard against the coming storm no one else could see, but that was almost certainly a lie. He had never been selfless.

Changing rooms did not solve anything, really. His dreams were unquiet and he slept no better than ever, though at least the wards he set kept any from hearing him scream. But it was also only there that he could release the glamour and be himself, however little that meant.

Sometimes it felt as though he must have made some demon’s bargain to survive on Svartalfheim, sold some piece of himself away that would account for the hollow in his chest that did not fill, even when he sat on the Hlidskjalf and knew Asgard was his, that he ruled and that he would rule _well._ Let Odin think all he could bring was ruin and destruction. Loki would prove him wrong, wearing Odin’s own face. And if it was bitter that he could _only_ do so wearing a skin not his own-

Sometimes, meeting his own eyes in the mirror, Loki thought he was tired of being himself. Worn out like an over-used rag.

Wine served well enough to chase away those maudlin thoughts, even if it also gave birth to others. Staring into the bottom of a cup, for instance, and wondering what Thor was doing. If he thought of Loki at all, or had forgotten him by now, relieved to lay his shadow to rest.

 _Ah, but you don’t care at all,_ whispered a snide voice in his ear. He almost answered it aloud. _Foolish, deluded creature._

He dreamed he was in his cell, with the walls closing in and Odin standing watching him on the other side of the barrier. “Let me out!” He shouted, pounding his fists against the barrier until they bled. “Thanos is coming, I swear to you! Please, let me out!”

Odin turned his back and walked away without a word.

* * *

When Loki woke with a start, at first he assumed that it was his dreams, once again. He ran his fingers through his hair, pressing his fingers into his temples, and then froze. He heard something - ragged breathing, and shuffling footsteps in the antechamber.

Any lingering fog on his brain disintegrated. Loki stood, snapping his fingers to call a witchlight and regathering his glamour - though he could think of no reason for someone to come skulking around the Allfather’s quarters in the middle of the night. If someone suspected all was not as it seemed…

He moved silently over to the door, fingers itching for a dagger. He waited, though, until he heard the footsteps stop. Tensed, readying himself to move.

“Loki,” he heard, from the other side of the door, and he froze. The voice sounded strange, thick and strained but familiar, though it escaped him whose it was. “Loki,” said the voice again. “I know…I know it is you. I need to speak to you.”

Loki held his breath, warring with himself. If someone already knew he was here…delaying might mean they would leave, and perhaps tell others. But if they weren’t certain - and there was the familiarity of that voice.

“Please,” said the voice, and Loki heard the desperation in it. “There isn’t much time. I need-” He heard a quiet gasp, a muffled sound of pain, and Loki realized with a jolt that he _did_ know that voice. Very well. Too well.

Loki yanked open the door and stumbled through before he could reconsider. There was a knife in his hand he didn’t remember summoning, but whatever he’d been expecting-

It was him. Loki, looking more worn and thinner, the metal of his armor dented where it wasn’t torn away. Half of his face was covered in still wet blood, one eye swollen shut. Loki wavered, his first thought _ah, so I’ve gone entirely mad now._

Loki - the other Loki - coughed, and he could see a thin spray of red. His fingers were white-knuckled on the chair that seemed to be the only thing holding him upright. “You are not mad,” he said, grin wild, almost feral. “Or at least, I am not - _ah_ \- a figment of your madness. I do not have time to. Convince you of that. Believe or do not, but _listen._ ”

Loki didn’t move from where he was standing. The hand not clutching the chair (fingers broken, he noticed, and blood dripped from empty nail beds) was curled around his stomach, and when he moved slightly Loki caught a flash of white through torn leather that might have been bone. “What are you,” he said, a thin shield of numbness keeping back a wave of horror and nausea.

“Do you really need to ask,” the other Loki said, voice wet. He turned his head and spat something dark red, hitting the floor with an unpleasant smack. “I am your future.” The white of his teeth gleamed through the blood for a moment before his body seized and he bent over, hissing. Loki could not move.

 _My future,_ he thought, something giddy and faintly hysterical in it, but the numbness held. “You’re dying,” he said, stupidly. His other self made a sound that Loki took for one of pain until he realized, a moment later, it was supposed to be a laugh.

“Yes,” he said. “For - for good this time. That is why I can be here. But I do not have - _hnnnh._ ” He broke off, panting, head bent and blood dripping from his lips, his hair, his fingers. ( _Your,_ Loki thought, _your fingers,_ and curled his arms around himself. “–no time,” he panted, recovering slightly. “You need to understand something. Need to-”

He wavered, swaying, and fell, dropping to his knees and retching weakly before he fell back, head lolling limply and arms slipping to his sides. Loki swallowed hard, eyes pulled to the wound nearly bisecting him at the waist so it looked like he was holding himself together with clothing and hands. His eyelids fluttered and Loki edged forward, his heart pounding, torn between running and trying to help and offering what seemed like it would be mercy. How many times had he imagined-

The other Loki’s hand snapped out, surprisingly fast, and grabbed Loki’s wrist, dragging him close. “You think you know what you are doing,” he rasped. His breath stank like iron and death. “You do not. You are stumbling in the dark, a _child_ playing at strategy. You - nnnh. Your vanity is the only thing that - that lets you think you are suited to play ruler.” Loki recoiled, trying to jerk loose, but his other self’s grip was still strong.

“Just because _you_ failed-”

“I _am_ you.” The Loki on the floor breathed shallowly, eyes focusing slowly on Loki’s face. “Your mistakes are mine. I am here to - _ahhh, Norns._ ” He broke off, a tear leaving a clean streak in the blood and dirt on his face. “Can you…something to dull pain.”

Loki hesitated. “I don’t have that sort of thing just lying around,” he said, then hesitated. “Let me…” He reached out with his free hand to touch his temple and his other self flinched back, only to close his eyes with a soft huff. The working to dull pain was a simple one, and Loki cast it and saw the other Loki shudder with relief, eyes closing. “It worked,” he said, with faint surprise. It would not have, if he’d tried to cast it self-reflexively, but apparently this didn’t count. Some part of his brain wanted to analyze that. He felt too dazed to look at it closely.

His right hand was sticky with his own blood. Loki stared at it blankly.

“Thank you,” his other self said. Loki wanted to flinch away from it.

“What are you here for,” he said flatly.

“To tell you that you need to stop,” the other Loki said. His inhale gurgled quietly. “You need to - call Thor back. Ask for his help. Wake the Allfather and tell him what you know. You cannot defeat Thanos. It is - _arrogance_ to think otherwise.” He coughed, more blood dribbling down his chin. “If you do not…”

“I die,” Loki said flatly.

His future self snorted. “No,” he said. “You don’t. Everyone else does. The worlds burn. And then, eventually, after everything else is gone…” His head dropped forward, one hand rising to gesture limply at himself. “You see.”

Loki swallowed hard, fear rising in his chest until he choked on it. “And if I do as you say?”

His other self was quiet for a long moment, only the harsh sound of his breathing audible. “You know the answer,” he said eventually. “You were never going to survive this.”

“Then perhaps the rest of it should burn,” Loki snapped. His older self looked at him with weary eyes, starting to fog.

“You do not want that.”

Loki looked away, but he couldn’t argue. He stared at the growing pool of blood on his floor instead.

“You will do it,” his other self said, words starting to slur. When Loki looked at him, his skin was ash pale. “You will - call Thor back? You must. There is - less time than you think.”

“How long,” Loki said, dread making his stomach lurch. His other self shook his head, lips pressed together. After a long moment, Loki moved gingerly, sitting down beside himself and reaching out to rest his fingers, ever so lightly, on his arm. He could feel small shivers running through his body.

“Always so cold,” he murmured. “Why does it have to be…you remember?” He sounded almost hopeful. Loki closed his eyes, thinking of the cold of the Void, the cold in Svartalheim, life leeching from his body.

“I remember.”

“Will you stay?” He was fading fast. Loki could hear it in his voice and feel it in the chill of his hand as he took it, careful not to jostle broken fingers.

“I will,” he said, after a long moment. Before, he thought, he might have spit on himself, or been happy to drive a blade into his heart himself. Now…he just felt tired. _You were never going to survive this._

He’d always been a fool to think otherwise.

The ragged sound of his other self’s breathing stuttered and hitched. He let out a small whining sound but didn’t speak. “Shh,” Loki murmured, rubbing his thumb over cold, clammy skin, watching himself die. Listening to his breathing get shallower and shallower, pulse stuttering in his wrist until it was little more than a faint thrum under his fingers, and then nothing. His exhale rattled. Loki held very still, waiting, but he didn’t take another breath.

He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, sitting beside his own corpse. He felt a vague and distant grief, but it wasn’t really _real_. What use in grieving something that had never been meant to live?

He pushed himself to his knees and turned to look at his own eyes, pale and staring. Loki looked away and stood. _There isn’t much time._

Loki felt inexpressibly weary. At least in death there might be peace

But if he was to be a sacrifice, oh, he would do it well.


End file.
